Scrapes, Bruises, and Cuts
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Soulmates share injuries. Sometimes, it's kind of nice. Quirky. Seeing a strange bruise and knowing it's because your soulmate's clumsy. Sometimes, though, it's really not. Especially when it's someone's job to get punched and kicked on a regular basis. Then it's just annoying.


Soulmates shared injuries. Bruises were the most common form. Most people could end up with small cuts and scrapes, too, though they showed up as red marks instead of open wounds, and there were some people, an estimated ten percent of the population, that ended up with matching scars as their soulmate. The echo injuries didn't hurt like real ones, though some said they felt a sympathy ache from time to time.

Cassandra was one of that estimated ten percent. Not only did she get the bruises and the marks, she got the scars. And she when she found her soulmate, she was going to kill them. No two ways about it. She made up her mind when she looked in the mirror that morning. The entire left side of her face was mottled with ugly bruising in all shades of purplish-black and red. It started just below her left eye, went all kitty-corner up to her temple, across half her forehead, under her ear, and down her cheekbone to her jaw. It was the kind of deep bruising that would go through all colours of the rainbow, so she had hues of sickly yellow-green and brown to look forward to later. They didn't hurt because they weren't _her_ bruises, but they were still hideous.

She wasn't surprised. She'd lost the ability to be surprised somewhere between the second gunshot and the fourth knife scar. She wasn't even worried at this point. After this long, if they weren't dead yet, she had pretty good faith that they would be okay. She was, however, irritated because there was no cover-up on the face of the earth that could hide this. She'd have to go around looking like plum pudding for the next few days until it lightened up a bit. Just great. Awesome.

"When I find you, I am going to hurt you," she muttered balefully at her own reflection before turning to get ready for work.

Just as she knew would happen, Jacob looked up from his book at the sound of the door and promptly choked on his coffee when he saw her. "Holy shit," he sputtered, swiping at his chin. "Cass—"

"It's not me," Cassandra sighed in exasperation, shucking off her coat and taking off her hat. "I swear, when I find my soulmate, I'm going to kick their ass. I look like an abused spouse." She felt like she ought to wear a sign: _I am fine. My soulmate is a walking hurt magnet._

"Maybe they're a rugby player?" Ezekiel suggested, whistling through his teeth as he appraised the damage.

"Or a professional fighter," Jacob added, since it looked to him like the bruises looked like they matched the pattern of a fist-fight gone very, very bad. He was lucky that Ezekiel didn't get into fights like that, and that he was good enough to avoid getting whupped. Now they just ended up with the usual little scrapes that came with adventuring.

"Whatever they are, I'm going to give them a good kick in the ass," she repeated, opening the pink box of doughnuts on the table. She didn't even want to show them what the rest of the bruises looked like, spreading down her back and over her ribs like some horrible skin condition. They used to scare her, especially when she was younger and they first started showing up on such a magnitude, afraid that her soulmate was going to get themselves killed before she got the chance to meet them. Now they just annoyed her because _seriously,_ could they not stay out of trouble for a week? Was it so hard?

"Whose ass are we kicking?" Eve mused as she walked downstairs. She caught one look at Cassandra's face and went, "Ah. Got it. Trust me, I have the same problem with Flynn." The blonde tipped her head back and pointed to a long, angry red welt under her chin. "What do you think he did to get this one?"

"Tripped and hit a table," Jenkins replied instantly. "He's done it before. He has the most unfortunate habit of forgetting to tie his shoelaces when he changes shoes."

Eve huffed. "Well, looks like someone's getting Velcro shoes for Christmas because this is the third one this month. He's gonna end up breaking his damn jaw."

The image of Flynn wearing Velcro shoes and the indignant look on his face he was sure to have when he got them was enough to make Cassandra laugh and forget for the moment about inflicting bodily harm on her soulmate.

* * *

Sometimes being normal was kind of nice. Hardison would never, ever tell Parker that, of course, but there were times when it was nice not having to hack some corrupt prick. Not that taking down the Man was a bad thing, but breaks were pleasant. It was nice to have a day when he could just kick back, binge on Netflix, maybe kick some ass at _Galaga_.

Of course, he should also know better than to expect his peace and quiet to last very long.

"Come look at this," Parker said, appearing behind his chair like some kind of damn teleporter, and he nearly choked on his soda. "Hardison. Hardison, come look," she insisted, ignoring his confused sputtering and tugging on his arm until he stood up and followed her over to the monitors that showed the security cams in the brewpub. She'd gotten into the habit of people-watching ever since she busted her leg.

"What am I looking at?" he asked once he'd regained the ability to breathe, wiping his chin with his sleeve.

She pointed at one of the tables near the window where a pretty redhead sat by herself, reading as she ate. "Look, right there. She's all bruised up just like Eliot is. Do you think that's his soulmate? Do you?" Parker asked, almost bouncing in place. "I know you told me that I shouldn't try to make him look for his soulmate, but it looks just the same."

Hardison blinked a few times at the sight of the redhead, who was indeed banged up six ways to Sunday in a way that was suspiciously similar to a certain hitter they knew. "Hold on, mama. Lemme look at her first." He was kind of trying not to freak out a little, too. Eliot had said before he was certain he didn't have a soulmate. Not everybody did, and he insisted that he was one of them. Parker had tried to convince him otherwise. She hadn't thought she had a soulmate either, but Hardison was very happy to prove her wrong. Eliot liked being stubborn, though. So did Parker.

It wasn't easy to see her, since she had her face angled away from the camera, but when she leant back in her chair to stretch, he got a clear view of her. And sure enough, she had the same damn bruises as Eliot did, down to the cut lip and the banged-up right hand. She wasn't acting like they hurt at all, which meant they were echo injuries, not hers. Hardison let out a weak little laugh. "I'll be damned, Parker, I think you might—Parker?" She'd somehow vanished when he glanced back, but before he could call for her again, she was coming back in the side doors, towing Eliot along with her despite the hitter's irritated protests.

"Show him," she panted, eyes glittering.

"Show me _what?"_ Eliot growled.

* * *

Cassandra rubbed her thumb back and forth across her opposite knuckles and the various shades of bruising on them. She was starting to think that maybe Jacob was right, and her soulmate was some kind of professional fighter. Bareknuckle boxing or something.

As yet another person gave her a look of surprise and mild concern as they passed, Cassandra let out a heavy sigh and sat back in her chair. Maybe going out for lunch instead of ordering in wasn't a good idea. _Bastard._ If only she had some way to tell them to _just knock it off_ for a few days so she could look normal again, send them a message somehow...

She had an idea. Cassandra grabbed her bag and started digging around until she found what she was looking for—a plastic pen cap.

* * *

"What's she doing?" Parker wondered, peering over Hardison's shoulder at the monitors.

"No idea," he replied, trying to find a camera angle that might let him see better. It almost looked like she was writing something on her arm.

He got his answer, however, on multiple fronts, when he heard Eliot exclaim softly, "The fuck?" Hardison turned in his chair and saw the hitter was staring at his own arm in confused surprise. On his forearm, there were three words scratched just hard enough that they'd show up, soft red lines that would probably fade in a few minutes: STOP GETTING HURT.

"It's her!" Parker exclaimed gleefully, pointing at the monitors. "It's her, she's doing it! Eliot, you _do_ have a soulmate! We told you so! We _told_ you!"

Hardison was too busy laughing to rub it in. The look of utter shock on Eliot's face was priceless, and he made a mental note to go back over the footage later and save that picture _forever_.

Ignoring Parker's victory dance, Eliot leant forward to study the monitors, watching as the redhead bent over her other arm with a studious look on her face, then looked down at his own arm, red letters fading in as she scratched them on her skin: ASSHOLE.

"I'll be goddamned."

* * *

There. Perfect. Cassandra capped the pen and tucked it back in her purse, smiling. She couldn't believe she hadn't thought to do that before. Maybe now she could actually go a day or two looking like a normal human being.

As she was picking up her book, a tall man with a warm smile came over to her table. She recognised him from the back of the menu; he was the owner. "Excuse me, ma'am. Would you mind giving me just one moment of your time and following me right quick?" he asked pleasantly.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked, picking up her bag and following him through the tables.

"No, of course not, ma'am, but if you could please follow me back here for just one moment," he said courteously, holding open a door that said 'employees only.' Cassandra followed him into what looked like a very neat and relaxed-casual kind of space. There was a bank of monitors that showed security footage of the brewpub. A blonde woman was almost bouncing in place off to the side.

Cassandra opened her mouth to ask what exactly was wrong, but then her confusion gave way to disbelief when she noticed the other person in the room, the man in the chef's jacket standing over by the security monitors. The fact that he looked like a hippie version of Jacob was lost on her considering that she was too busy staring at his stupid face, which was covered in bruises just like hers. The pieces fell into place with a resounding click. They were _his_ , which meant that _he_ was her soulmate, meaning it was _his_ fault she walked around looking like a pinto horse all the damn time. And just like that, her confusion gave way to irritation.

"Oh, you son of a _bitch,"_ she declared loudly, planting both fists on her hips and glaring at him; his eyes widened a little. "What in the hell is wrong with you? Do you have an impulse control problem? Or do you just like getting your ass kicked? Do you have _any idea_ how many times I've been asked if I 'need help' because of your stupid ass? People think I'm a battered wife or something. Jesus Christ, can you not go three days without picking a damn fight with someone? I mean seriously, is it so hard to stay out of trouble?"

Standing to the side with the blonde woman hanging on his arm, the other man let out a deep sigh of contentment. "This is the best day of my life."

* * *

His soulmate—apparently, her name was Cassandra Cillian, and she was _so_ not happy with him—had another good five minutes of ranting in her before she was willing to let him get a word in edgewise. "So, I'm an asshole? And a son of a bitch?" Eliot asked once he'd poured them both a drink, sitting at one of the more private tables in the back of the pub. He'd left the kitchen in the hands of his sous chef for now, and he had no doubt Parker and Hardison had their noses to the monitors in the back room and had already called Nate and Sophie.

"Yes," she replied immediately. "For making me look like a walking Rorschach test every other damn week, yes, you are." She meant it, he could tell, but she was smiling, too. So was he. It was hard not to.

He reached up to rub the back of his neck. "Mm. I deserve that."

"And worse. I'm being nice. So, why is it that you constantly look like a paint set threw up on you? My coworkers have been laying bets. Rugby? Professional fighting? Crash-test dummy? Alligator wrestling?"

Eliot blinked a few times at that last one but didn't ask. "Uh, no. I'm, uhm...I'm in private security." Well, it wasn't _exactly_ a lie.

She narrowed her eyes a little, tilting her head to one side. "You're not lying, but you're not really telling the truth either. Why?" she asked.

Damn. He'd heard that soulmates had the ability to know when the other was lying to them, but he hadn't realised it was _that_ specific. Eliot knew he was going to be in a world of hurt for this, but Nate would just have to suck it up. Soulmates came with an automatic no-secrets clause. "It's a bit of a long story that would take a lot of explaining and some help from a few friends of mine, so...can we just leave it at that for now? I'll tell you, I promise, just...later," Eliot promised.

Cassandra kept up her surprisingly efficient cop gaze for a moment longer, and then she smiled at him. "Alright. That's fair. I've got a few things to explain to you, too. Later." She leant back a little in her chair and stretched her legs out in front of her. She had very lovely legs. Hell, she had lovely...everything. "So, Mr. Spencer. Let's start with a few other basic questions, yeah?" she asked, gaze glittering with mirth. "Do you have any siblings? More specifically, a brother by the name of Jacob?"

He stared at her for a bare second before erupting in a fit of laughter.

* * *

The dinner rush was winding down by the time Cassandra pushed back from the table and said she had to leave. They'd spent the last several hours doing little else other than talking about everything and nothing, getting caught up on a lifetime apart. Eliot had slipped into the kitchens to get them something to eat, and he'd spotted both Nate and Sophie in the back room, giving him matching speculative gazes. He only winked at them in reply before heading back to the table. The conversation came easy, which surprised him. Soulmates didn't automatically click in most cases, and he'd never exactly been the 'sharing' type himself. But it was nice. It was pleasant. He was happy talking with Cassandra and could have quite gratefully gone on until closing.

"I have to get back. My friends are probably wondering if I fell down an open manhole or something," she insisted, tucking her hair under her knit cap. Eliot stood up to help her into her jacket. "I'll be back tomorrow. I promise. You think you can go that long without getting into another fight?" she teased.

"No promises. Hey." Eliot caught her by the wrist and drew her over to him, one hand settling in the small of her back as he kissed her, soft and chaste. She smoothed a hand back over his hair, humming happily against his mouth. It made his lip sting a little, but damned if it wasn't worth it. "Am I forgiven?" he asked once they pulled apart, one hand still resting on her back.

Cassandra smiled and kissed his forehead. "No...but you're definitely getting there."


End file.
